Self-Portrait as Matchstick

On the counter: half an orange. Tickle of pulp
crashing down on your tongue.

Last night the clouds deflated like party balloons,
& the mists clung to our jackets. You told me
you were the leaves of an oak & in the distance, the lights
of the capitol fluffed the pillows of the sky.

What follows the rains is not always blessed: today, the first taste
of spring on my balcony-

I found the sulfurous head that kissed your cigarette
next to my back tire.

I’ll imagine the reddening of my face in the sun
is just me
ready to be struck.